Slipped away

Mr. Chadwick and I regret our lack of correspondence during the recent, brief spate of play-off tilts.

We misplaced our typing devices in the same place the Bostons left their vim, fortitude and resilience. It is possible Mr. Papelbon's hurling ability was hidden in a dark corner there, as well.

Until such time as the Duffy's washes the taste of disgust from my throat, I direct you to the sentiments with which we mourned the end of last year's contesting season.

Requiem for a season

Requiem for a season

Take down the bunting.
Launder the flannels one last time.
Feed the remaining wieners to the hogs,
And un-tap the kegs of ale.

Pack up the leather and horsehide.
Incinerate the hexed ash-clouts.
Shoot out the lights and let the turf go dormant,
For base-ball is ended at the Fens.

Muffle the drums and silence the Rooters’ chorus.
Roll up the pennants with a bracing of naphthalene.
Lock the turnstiles behind the last exiting man,
And sweep the discarded score-cards into the ash-heap.

Lay in a quantity of Duffy’s.
Pull up a chair to the hot stove.
Brood on the fates of the Captain and the Colossus,
For today, the Bostons have fallen.